Because You're Young
by Victoria Squalor
Summary: Housesitting, wine, couch-defiling, and Bowie. "A million dreams, a million scars." (Neal/Emma, thievery-era fluff)


**A/N:** Dark Spirits is having the dementor effect on me, so I had to stop for chocolate. This is what happens when you have the Thin White Duke on repeat in your brain all day at your boring desk job.  
**Disclaimer: **OUAT and the Bowie catalog: not mine.

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**Because You're Young**

by Victoria Squalor

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_I'm stuck with a valuable friend  
I'm happy, hope you're happy too_

* * *

In this day and age, Emma thought, the Taggarts really should have known better than to hire someone with no references, without a background check or even looking up the phony home address she gave them, which actually belonged to the Burgerville on 122nd and Stark. They had decided they could trust her on appearances alone, and she'd shown up looking the part of the part-time OSU student in the carefully crafted cock-and-bull story she'd given them: freshly scrubbed, hair pulled up with a velvet scrunchie, green cable-knit sweater and pleated skirt, topped off with a spritz of White Musk from the tester she'd pocketed at the Body Shop last weekend. Her glasses helped too, selling the poindexter look.

She minded her manners, was careful to sit with her knees together, and talked pleasantly with Mr. Taggart about the latest exciting developments in computer networking, her "college major"—an easy enough bluff as she suspected these people didn't even have AOL. And they bought it.

They were gullible enough that Emma didn't feel particularly sorry about taking advantage of them.

She waved at them from the doorstep as their silver Lexus backed down the driveway. A few minutes later, Neal clambered out of the Beetle's backseat.

"Nice," he remarked, eyeing the sprawling cedar-shingled house with the huge patio deck. "Want me to carry you across the threshold?"

"You better not. That guy watering his lawn across the street looks suspicious."

"He also looks about a hundred years old. I doubt his faculties are fully in order."

"Weren't you the one who told me to beware of senior citizens?" Emma pointed out, hands on hips. "Because they have nothing more to do with their time than spy on their neighbors, go to buffeterias, and stand in line outside Powell's waiting for nine A.M.?"

Neal raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. "I _have_ taught you well, grasshopper. Although it's Barnes and Noble, actually. Powell's is too liberal and hard to navigate for most of them."

Emma smirked. "Go to the back gate. I'll let you in there."

He saluted and disappeared around the side of the house, while Emma climbed what she felt was an unnecessarily long staircase up to the front door. It was stupid, she knew, but she'd put the swan keychain on the spare the Taggarts had given her, just to pretend for a moment that it was _her _house she was walking into. In the meantime, until they made it to Tallahassee, it was as close as she would get.

The door swung open to a foyer with gleaming cherrywood floors and a high vaulted ceiling. Emma tried not to gape like an idiot at the massive stone fireplace, or take too long admiring the floor-to-ceiling windows and their view of Mount Hood, hustling to the back patio to let Neal in.

"Not bad in here either," he said appraisingly, padding through the kitchen to the living room and back again. "Although most of the artwork looks suspiciously similar to that found in a Motel 6." He paused to examine a sheet of paper tacked to the fridge with a large banana-shaped magnet. "Oh, here's what they want you to do. 'Sweep, dust, and mop all floors. Clean oven and all appliances—'"

"_Ugghhhhhh," _Emma groaned loudly. "Do we _have_ to do this stuff?" This flying on the semi-straight and narrow business that Neal had proposed they try had definite drawbacks.

"'Course not. We can always just clean out the fridge and the old lady's jewelry box and split…if you want. But if we play it right, we can still have our fun and collect an honest day's pay." Neal paused to scratch his chin. "Well, _somewhat _honest."

"Well, I'm going to put some music on. I gotta whistle while I work, at least." Emma wandered over to the entertainment center to inspect. The stereo looked like a relic from the mid-1980s; there was no CD player, but it did have a dual tape deck and turntable, with a stack of vinyl records beside it. Emma began flipping through them, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Neal, promise me we won't end up like these people."

"What, married?" Neal's voice had disappeared inside a cupboard.

"No, total Luddites with lame taste in music. Ooh!" She eased out a copy of Bowie's _Scary Monsters _and carried it over to him_. _"I found this wedged between Air Supply and Ambrosia. One of these things is not like the others."

Neal shrugged, studying the cardboard sleeve. "They're what, late-fifties? That's not too far off. They could've been shooting dope with Major Tom back in '69. Who knows, maybe they still get a little wild on the weekends after a gallon of Franzia. You know they have a separate wine fridge in the kitchen, and they still keep that boxed shit next to the milk? If I wanted to drink that crap I'd go hang out with the gutter punks on Third."

"We did once, remember?" Emma reminded him. "And they shunned us."

"Oh, yeah, for being too clean, I guess." He winked and handed the record back to her. "Put it on. I'll be your sommelier this morning."

Emma hurried back to the living room to set up the turntable. When she returned Neal had set two wine glasses out on the kitchen counter and was peering into the cooler. "Well," he said, "we have a fine Silver Oak cabernet from 1998, and a pinot noir from Freedom Hill, same year…"

"Oh, come _on_," Emma protested, trying not to giggle at his affected upper-crust accent. "Like you know anything about wine. You had half a bottle of Night Train in the car when I found you."

Neal gave an affected sigh. "You just can't get used to living the high life, can you, Miss Swan?"

Grinning, Emma stuck her tongue out at him before reaching into the cooler herself and pulling out a bottle of rosé labeled _Storybook Mountain Vineyards._

"This one," she said, thrusting it at him. "I like the name."

Neal examined the label with a chuckle. "Fair enough."

After making another thorough survey of the kitchen and coming up with a half pound of Havarti and a sourdough boulé, they agreed on grilled cheese. The wine bottle was nearly empty by the time they finished lunch. Emma dropped the crust back onto the plate and drained the last of her glass, wandering back out to the living room. "This is my favorite one," she announced as "Ashes to Ashes" wafted from the stereo. "It's about me." She started to sway back and forth to the music, the wine clearly having taken hold.

Neal watched her with affectionate amusement, a smile spreading across his face. "How so?"

"Listen to it. _My mother said, to get things done, you better not mess with Emma Swan," _she sang lustily over the track, improvising a dance that involved multiple hip thrusts and jerky arm movements. Neal dissolved into laughter.

"That is the dorkiest thing I've ever seen," he remarked, wiping the corner of his eye.

"_You're_ the dorkiest thing I've ever seen." Emma turned away from him and began pulling her sweater off; it landed haphazardly on the back of the flowered couch. Her skirt followed in short order, kicked to one end of the room after it pooled around her ankles. "Still think I look dorky?" she asked smugly, turning back around, arms still undulating to the music.

Neal's mouth was hanging slightly ajar. "I, uh, don't remember seeing those panties before."

"You haven't." They were black, with rows of white lace ruffles. She'd stuffed them into her bag within five feet of a security guard; it had been a big risk, but well worth it now, she thought with immense satisfaction.

"You should…probably stop," Neal said, biting his lower lip.

"Why?" She did another hip bump in his direction.

"Because...you're going to get laid, all over that couch. That couch is going to be fully defiled. Just think of poor Mrs. Taggart sitting down to watch her stories on that couch and having no idea of the depravity that took place there."

They looked at each other for a long moment, before Neal launched himself at Emma, pinning her to the cushions as she shrieked with uncontrollable laughter, kicking her legs high in the air.

* * *

Afterward she sat with her head resting on his shoulder, still straddling his lap, as he slumped against the back of the couch. Her cheek clung to his neck, damp with perspiration.

"What kind of house do you want?" she mumbled into his shoulder. "I mean, when we move to Tallahassee?"

There was a long pause. "Whatever kind you want," he said.

Emma reached out and traced the outline of a blue cabbage rose on one of the couch cushions. "I don't care if it's big," she said. "I'd rather have a little place on the beach than a big house out in the 'burbs. It just has to be big enough for the two of us."

The record was still playing, accentuated by the pops and hisses of the warped vinyl. _Well, how come you only want tomorrow, with its promise of something hard to do?_

He kissed her shoulder, tugged on her mussed ponytail. "It will be."

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~end~


End file.
